The following is
a continuation of "Tales of the Irish Civil War-
1922" by
Dick Hornidge of Tulfarris.
"I was walking
with Betsy on the brow of the hill that arose steeply behind Tinode.
To the east, under a scattering of
white clouds, the heather
covered peak of Mullaghcleevaun reached through the mist that shrouded
Ballyknockan Bog.
Suddenly, a small rabbit with a white tipped tail darted from behind a bush
and scampered down the path in a series of zigzags. Then came Betsy, nose to
the ground, her long ears dragging in the dew laden grass.
"Betsy! You'll never catch it. Come on back before you have a heart attack," I
cried.
She flopped down on the path, gasping for breath as I hugged her. Betsy was
my faithful companion when I visited my grandparents. Together we explored
the wildflower-covered hillsides and the shadowy paths that wound through the
dense woods. At night she slept on my bed and at mealtime sat hopefully by
my chair.
We ran down the hill, my wellingtons making sucking noises as I pulled them
out of the mud. The tall chimneys and gray slate roofs of Tinode appeared when
we rounded the next bend.
My grandparents' home was a stately, three-storied Victorian building nestled
into the hillside with a sweeping view of the valley below. The carefully tended
lawns and gardens and reforested hillsides gave me a comforting sense of order
and permanence. I could not imagine a world without Tinode.
I enjoyed exploring the many rooms and passageways of the house. When I walked
down the long corridor that led to the library the ancestors gazed down on
me from their portraits. Their eyes followed me all the way to the library
door. My reading was elementary, but I did enjoy looking at pictures in the
English periodicals, many of steeplechases with horses sailing over jumps.
The drawings in "Punch" were also fun to look at, but I didn't understand
many of the jokes. My favourite book was the three-volume history of the Indian
Mutiny with blood curdling pictures of Sepoys attacking English soldiers. Racing
trophies, won by grandfather's horse Dainty, lined a side table. He was currently
on duty with his regiment in Ceylon. When I snuggled into the deep upholstered
chair Betsy climbed onto my bony lap but quickly slid sideways onto the softness
of the seat. There was plenty of room for both of us. When I looked up at the
shelves of leather bound volumes and the oak panelled walls I felt content
and safe.
We continued down the path where the morning sun shone through the overhanging
trees and the shadows ran before us. At the end we entered a lane bordered
on each side by hedges of blackberry bushes. It led into the yard where a beaten
up old lorry stood near the kitchen entrance. A bored IRA trooper, a bandoleer
crammed full of bullets across his chest, stood guard. He waved his hand and
grinned at me in a friendly fashion.
My grandparents regarded the IRA as lawless rebels who belonged in prison,
but there was little they could do to prevent these visitations. I looked upon
the IRA as my friends. Most of them were good-natured farm boys who laughed
and joked with me. When they came to Tinode it meant fun and excitement. I
was careful to hide these feelings from my grandparents.
As I entered the back door, on my way to the kitchen, I saw my grandmother
coming from the opposite direction. She strode into the kitchen just ahead
of me.
Grandmother's life revolved around horses and she spent much of her time riding
at hunts or exhibiting horses in show rings. This life style contributed to
her ruddy out-of-doors complexion, strong but sensitive hands and erect carriage.
She had a quick temper that could erupt suddenly with people, but she had unlimited
gentleness and patience with horses. The family had learned the warning signs
and knew when to stay out of her way. During baby talk when I was very young,
I must have called her something that sounded like Donna. The name stuck, so
now all the family called her Donna.
In the kitchen Donna stood at one side of the table scanning the faces of the
six or seven IRA men nursing their mugs of strong black tea.
"Who's in charge?", she demanded. "It's usually Plunket, but I
don't see him."
A tall man with piercing blue eyes, sitting at the far end of the table, stood
up. "Plunket was unwell, so the commandment put me in charge," he
explained. By his accent he plainly came from another county.
"And where are you from? Donna enquired.
"Sure an' I'm from Donegal,"
I was standing beside Donna and saw her tenseness when the blue eyed man said
he was from the north. Her eyes narrowed and I heard her sudden intake of breath.
The news had disturbed her deeply, but I didn't understand why.
"Well, enjoy your tea. Then I trust you'll be on your way."
"That we will mam. And thank ye kindly for the tay." The blue eyed
man smiled as he thanked Donna. He sounded polite and appreciative. During the
afternoon walk with Betsy I was puzzled over Donna's alarm when she heard the
blue eyed man came from out of the county.
The food for dinner, in covered dishes, was already on the sideboard when we
sat down at the large dinner table which could seat the entire hunt club at
their annual banquet. Molly served the roast lamb, potatoes and peas. As we
were finishing the first course I decided to question Donna.
" Why were you so upset this morning, Donna, when the blue eyed man said
he was from County Donegal?"
She did not answer immediately. Her fingers drummed nervously on the table
as she peered at the flickering candles. Finally she turned to me.
"The IRA often bring in a man from the outside when they're planning something,
and I got involved in some local policics," she said abruptly. "Molly
you can bring on the sweet now."
Her brief and vague reply only puzzled me more and explained nothing. Molly
removed the first course dishes and served the sweet. We retired to the drawing
room where Donna drank her coffee. She briefly became more animated as we discussed
my upcoming first term at prep school in the autumn. But again drew within
herself and gazed absently at the ceiling when it neared bedtime.
Going to bed at Tinode was always an adventure. I selected a candle from the
table in the hallway and started up the long curving stairway. The grotesque
shadows cast upon the white wall by the flickering candlelight always spooked
me. The chance of meeting Tinode's poltergeist added to my apprehension. Actually
he was a friendly little fellow who took the form of a white rabbit with a
quaint sense of humour. He delighted in pulling blankets off people while they
slept, so they woke up shivering. When only a few steps remained I made a dash
for the bedroom door with Betsy running on ahead. The wind blew the candle
flame over the back of my hand, which was slightly scorched. When we settled
down into the bed I felt Betsy's warmth as she snuggled into the small of my
back. She sighed contentedly and went to sleep. Prompted by Donna's behaviour,
I felt a tinge of anxiety like a small cloud that lingered on the horizon.
It was still there as I drifted off to sleep.
It must have been early morning because darkness had already surrendered to
twilight. Although my senses were still dulled by sleep I felt the vibrations
in the floor. Then I heard the loud thumps coming from the front of the house
at regular intervals. I ran out to the landing, from where I could see down
into the main hallway, just as the massive oak front door crashed inwards,
the heavy iron hinges now a twisted mass of metal. Six men stood in the opening
holding, between them, a long section of telephone pole suspended on rope slings.
Donna had been awakened by the crash and she now joined me on the landing.
In the dim light of early morning I saw the determined thrust of her chin and
alert eyes. She had fully expected something like this to happen, and now was
grimly determined to deal with the catastrophe that threatened us.
The man with the blue eyes stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at
us. "We're going to burn the house. You've three minutes to get out," he
yelled. He was no longer the smiling, polite person who thanked Donna for the
tea.
"Quick. Get dressed. Put on something warm. We'll meet out on the lawn," instructed
Donna.
I dressed quickly, my mind a whirl of emotions. Were the people I considered
my friends really going to burn Tinode? As I rushed down the stairs I met men
with petrol cans going up to the bedrooms, their rifles hung over their shoulders.
Their mud encrusted hobnailed boots sunk into the stairway carpet. I looked
into the drawingroom, before crossing the hallway, and saw men spilling petrol
out of cans onto the curtains, chairs, cushions and sofas. The fumes were overpowering.
The IRA went about their tasks with a quiet efficiency and showed little emotion.
They must have had plenty of practice because every week, somewhere in Ireland,
a fine old country house was looted and burned.
Donna and I joined the servants on the lawn where an IRA soldier stood guard
over us. As I looked towards the house, watching the progress of the flames,
I saw the blue eyed man clamber over the wreck of the front door and run down
the porch steps with a small black box under his left arm. Donna saw him too.
"That devil has my jewelry case," she cried.
She jumped to her feet and ran towards him. He stopped and drew his revolver
from its holster.
"Stop or I'll plug you," he commanded when Donna was only a couple
of feet away.
"I don't care what you do. Those are my jewels." She lurched forwards
and snatched the box from beneath his arm; turned her back to him and walked
slowly back to where we were waiting. The blue eyed man was dumbfounded. He replaced
his revolver and joined his men who were loading looted articles of furniture
onto the lorry.
Puffs of smoke were shooting from the top storey windows, followed by tongues
of flame, which quickly grew in intensity. The heat in the upper stories sucked
up a giant column of air that surged through the house with a roar. Then the
roof collapsed, sending showers of sparks into the morning sky.
Suddenly I remembered : "Has anyone seen Betsy?" I cried, as I looked
frantically around the lawn.
Molly replied. "I saw her run to the basement when the door fell in. " The
upper floors of the main house were an inferno, but the laundry room part of
the basement was not yet threatened. I ran towards the basement door, but only
had gone a few yards when I was flung to the ground by a hand grasping the
collar of my jacket. The blue eyed man stood over me.
"No one is going back into the house." He commanded
"But my dog is in there. I've got to get her out."
"No you're not. Go back to your grandmother."
I scrambled to my feet and again ran towards the basement door, but was once
more flung to the ground. This time the blue eyed man had the revolver in his
hand.
"Go back or you'll be sorry."
He had not shot Donna when she turned her back on him and walked away. But
this time, the hard glint in his eyes persuaded me that he would carry out
his threat.
I ran back to Donna, sobbing. It was my fault that Betsy would die in the flames.
I blamed myself bitterly for not watching out for her and thinking only of
myself.
I watched as flickers of flame, from smouldering pieces of wood, shot into
the smoke filled air and the sun, by now well over the shoulder of Mullaghcleevaun,
shone down upon the massive granite walls which rose proudly above the rubble.
Next month : "The Most Gorgeous Lady Blessington",
Jim Corley
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